Accepting Pylades
by Darci the Thespian
Summary: Enjolras' viewpoint of his execution


Enjolras' POV

I can hear the soldier's coming to meet me in this room. Here, I stand alone. The adrenaline from the battle is still coursing through my veins. My fellow comrades have fallen earlier. I walk behind the billiard table and turn to face the soldiers that have come to execute me. They think that by killing the revolutionaries, the revolution will end. But, they are wrong. The revolution will live inside the people. Even if they did not join us today, they will rise up. The injustice of the monarchy cannot continue forever. I stare at the soldiers in the eye, proud of the achievements my comrades and I created. We showed the government that we were not a force to reckon with.

"He is the leader! It was he who slew the artillery-man. It is well that he has placed himself there. Let him remain there. Let us shoot him down on the spot," a soldier cried out.

"Shoot me," I said. All I had in my hands was a barrel of a gun. I tossed that to the side. My arms folded and I stuck my chest out. An easy target. Let the soldiers think that the Republic will die with me. For it will not. The Republic will continue long after we are all gone.

A soldier lowered his gun, "it seems to me that I am about to shoot a flower." A flower perhaps, but a flower of Patria, of the Republic. These soldiers are content on destroying the lives of the people. They do not think about the greater good. The good of the people. They are selfish beings. Twelve of the soldiers formed into a squad and got ready. A sergeant called out, "take aim!"

"Wait," an officer held up his hand. Were they trying to perhaps elongate my execution? Make it as painful as possible? Yet my belief in my Patria was far too great to be scared by mere soldiers. My Patria will possibly be freed of these tyrants. The officer turned to me, "Do you wish to have your eyes bandaged?"

"No," I replied evenly. I didn't need to shield my eyes. My eyes were only on Patria and the Republic.

"Was it you who killed the artillery sergeant?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. I had killed one of their men, while they had killed all of my friends. My mind traveled back to yesterday.

I remember Bahorel fighting with all of his strength, but that didn't stop the bayonet entering his chest. He was humorous and was very witty. Although he could be a little thick sometimes, he was always listening to my speeches, always paying attention. Bahorel who loved to chat constantly, whether about small things or about our cause.

Jehan had been the next one to go. He was taken prison by the National Guard. Jehan, the most innocent of us all. He was naïve and young, and loved art. His optimism could cheer up anyone. One meeting, he had brought in his flute to play for us all. He played La Marseillaise, the national anthem. He was very shy, but when he spoke, he spoke with great passion. He had loved flowers and love itself, and was impossible to dislike. Jehan's death had stirred something in me, a new cause. While I was fighting for the Republic and my Patria, I was also fighting for my lost friends.

Feuilly was a worker, who found inspiration in our ideas. He had to work to stay alive, showing us another side of society. All of us schoolboys were introduced to the real outside world, thanks to him. Patria was his mother, and Feuilly was set on delivering the world. Not just the people of Paris, but the entire world. Feuilly had to teach himself everything, and was alone until he joined our group. He felt every man belonged somewhere. He had a very generous heart, a heart that had been shot through with a bullet.

Lesgle's smile is not one to be erased from a mind. His smile was big and happy, although he had the worst luck I have ever known. Yet, every meeting his laughter will fill the room at least once. Lesgle never cared that he had bad luck, and his optimism was remarkable. He was best friends with Joly, and respected the student tremendously. He would arrive to the meetings were a large stain on his shirt, one shoe missing, a gleaming bald head, and a smile. He had died a little bit before Joly.

Joly, our very own _malade imaginaire_. He was in top health, although he thought otherwise. Joly would talk about the forces of magnetism, and how man was magnetized. Joly was cheerful, except when he started freaking out over diseases. Joly had the tendency to be eccentric, yet his mind was true to the revolution. When Gavroche had gone to collect the ammo, Joly had been one of the ones trying to persuade him to come back. Joly had grown sadder in the space between Lesgle's death and his.

Courfeyrac was the center of our group. He brings all of us together and is the cornerstone. While he spends time flirting with various women, he is passionate about the cause. Courfeyrac and his positive attitude were contagious. Courfeyrac was a close friend, and he understood the gravity of the cause. Courfeyrac will always be there for the people, in spirit if not in body. Although we can no longer inspire the people with our words and actions, perhaps our deaths will trigger something inside of them.

Marius, Courfeyrac's friend. Marius, who admired Bonaparte of all people. Marius, the young boy who was foolish at points. When Courfeyrac introduced him, I had hoped he would see eye to eye with us. He did not, as he had stormed out the very first day. Courfeyrac was still friends with him, and had helped him survive in Paris. Courfeyrac never gave up on anyone. Yesterday, when Marius had joined us at the barricades, saving Gavroche and Courfeyrac, he had been accepted into our group. Marius' bravery shown through and we all let him redeem himself by saving the barricade. I was unsure of Marius' whereabouts. I saw him fall down, but the wound did not look fatal. Marius had not come into the wine-shop with me and the others. It is possible that the soldiers found him and killed him.

Combeferre was our guide and my best friend. We shared similar political views and both of us wanted a better future for the people. He was less passionate, yet his main goal was the freedom of the people. He is a philosopher that is not afraid of expressing his beliefs. Always carrying a book, Combeferre prefers a more peaceful approach than a barricade. But that did not stop him from joining the barricade until the very end. His death was quick, but painful. I had glanced around for a second, and saw three bayonets enter Combeferre's chest. Combeferre had fallen down, and his eyes had gone to stare at the heavens as he died.

"Take aim!" the order was repeated. My mind went back to my fallen comrades and Patria when a voice came from the doorway. A voice I was positive I was never going to hear again.

"Long live the Republic! I'm one of them," Grantaire stood there, with passion in his voice for the very first time. Grantaire was the worthless drunkard with the occasional joke. The meetings we had spent, arguing over the Republic and the rights of man. Grantaire who does not believe in anything. That man is incapable of doing anything except for drink. Still, here he stands. Offering himself to the soldiers, when he could have left easily.

"Long live the Republic!" Grantaire repeated. A wave of emotion swept through me. Had I done the impossible and managed to convince this skeptical drunkard to follow our causes? Grantaire was seeing the Republic at last. Patria will welcome him with open arms.

Grantaire walked over confidently to stand beside him. He is sober, I realize. "Finish both of us at one blow," Grantaire said. He turned to me, almost hesitantly. "Do you permit it?" he asked, holding out his hand.

I had been so sure that this cynical man did not care for anything. But he was going to die for something that he did not believe in before. He will give himself up. And if Grantaire can be swayed to join us, the people can do. The Republic will come. I thought back to when Grantaire said he believed in me. Perhaps that was the beginning of him believing in the cause. The belief that brought all of us together on the barricade. The belief that will continue on long after we are forgotten. Even when the people forget our faces and names, they will remember our story.

There is no way I can convey all of this to Grantaire, so I simply take his hand and smile. I smile to show him that he had been accepted, and Grantaire smiles back.

The guard fires and eight bullets hit me. I am pushed against the wall, where I lean, dead. My head is bowed down, my life work done. Grantaire fell at my feet, crumpled into a heap. His fingers are still loosely interlocked with mine. Grantaire died, believing in the cause, believing in us, and being an accepted Pylades.


End file.
